Faithful bed-fellow, — ay, the sailors’ benchesThey wore in common, nor unpunished did so,Since he is — thus! While, as for her, — swan-fashion,Her latest having chanted, — dying wailingShe lies, — to him, a sweetheart: me she brought to —My bed’s by-nicety — the whet of dalliance.

CHOROS.Alas, that someFate would comeUpon us in quickness —Neither much sicknessNeither bed-keeping —And bear unended sleeping,Now that subduedIs our keeper, the kindest of mood!Having borne, for a woman’s sake, much strife —By a woman he withered from life!